The Distant Nightmare
The soot in the bunkhouse tasted like burnt iron, a gritty film that coated the back of my throat and settled deep in the lungs, but it was the silence that woke me. It was not the quiet of sleep, but the specific, hollow void left when a presence is removed from a room. I sat up, my joints popping with the stiffness of thirty-four years and twenty years of service, and looked at the cot beside...
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